Super-heroics ain't what it used to be.
Captain Deluge looked out through the Cessna's dashboard window - the mountains were getting closer at a frightening pace. With the engines non-existant and the pilots knocked out there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable descent of this doomed machine. That was definitely going to crash. Into the mountains.
The Captain felt a dull thud against the back of his head as one of the assumed-unconscious-but-apparently-very-awake terrorists struck out at him with a rolled-up in flight magazine. Deluge almost fell into unconsciousness, lacking as he was in any kind of invulnerability or healing factor, but a simple question filled him with rage and adrenaline.
"WHY?!" screamed the Captain as he turned and started pounding his fists into the testicular region of his attacker with untamed fury. "Why is there an in-flight magazine on a bloody CESSNA?!"
The question went un-answered, as the assailant fell into a foetal position, clutching his globes desperately and crying anguished tears. The Captain saw no shame in kicking a man whilst he was down, and promptly did so, stomping on the wounded terrorist's head until it was a garbled mess of face and blood. Captain Deluge imagined a swelling trumpet score playing in the background as he bent down and closed shut what remained of his deceased opponent's eyes, gently whispering "Goodnight, old friend." He had not known in any way, shape or form the man he had just killed, but the Captain felt he owed it to him to say something nice.
The light aircraft was still plummeting at an ever-increasing speed(no, it had not yet reached terminal velocity) towards the snow-topped mountain range. The Captain knew that the soft white powder would not even begin to cushion the fall of this small vehicle, and there weren't enough parachutes for himself and the sleeping pilots. Deluge knew that now was the time to use his powers once more. To let go and release the filthy torrent - the Deluge - of excrement from his buttocks and build a makeshift shit-pillow for the plane to land in.
He dropped his trousers, aimed through a shattered window, and released the dirty stream of shite from his arse. More poo than one would think possible for a man to contain flowed out from twixt his legs, curling and dancing in the air on it's journey to the ground.
There was barely enough laid down by the time the plane finally ceased it's "flight". The landing was still rough, but all the inhabitants appeared to survive with only a few bumps and bruises. The Captain pulled himself from the window he had become stuck in, and tended to the pilots. One, awake now, was mystified - although it was hard to tell as he was vigorously vomiting in his hat. As the other awoke, he barely had time to work out what was happening before the cockpit windshield burst and covered him in feces.
Sure, they'd feel a little poorly, maybe even catch dysentry, but there were two pilots alive now who wouldn't have been had it not been for Captain Deluge's quick intervention and heroics. And that made him feel pretty pleased with himself, as he searched for something to wipe himself with.